


Caught in the Form of Limitation

by Cyn



Category: Prince of Tennis
Genre: Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-08
Updated: 2007-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:22:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyn/pseuds/Cyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>aka, Fuji Discovers Poetry. Fuji discovers poetry, makes life rather complicated for Tezuka during their final year in high school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught in the Form of Limitation

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of poets are mentioned, the only direct poetry used is from T.S. Eliot. For the LJ comm, philosophy20's 19th prompt, _caught in the form of limitation_.

Fuji takes a class on poetry during his second year, and spends the term distracting his teammates with lines of English poetry. Tezuka assumes he will stop after the winter, when the third year student's graduate and the second years take their places. Echizen is back on the courts, a smirking face still hidden beneath a white cap. The team is whole, with the single exception of Kawamura, and Tezuka, wrongly, thinks it will stop Fuji from distracting the rest of them.

If anything, Fuji's recitation of poetry only increases when the team is back. He quotes Shakespeare to Kaidoh and Momoshiro, who only look at him with curious gazes, understanding but not comprehending. Echizen smirks and tugs his hat lower and refuses to comment, even when Momoshiro demands an explanation. He quotes Pablo Neruda, translated into English, Spenser, both of the Brownings, Shelley and Keats, to Oishi and Kikumaru and does not translate any of the lines he utters into Japanese even for the sake of his friend. He likes to see Kikumaru demand answers from Oishi, and the blush that graces Oishi's cheeks when he translates.

Kawamura is graced with poetry, when they spot each other in the halls or when Fuji finds himself at Kawamura sushi. He speaks softer there, his tone more relaxed; Gibran, like Neruda, translated into English; Hughes and Carroll - even Tezuka has to admit that Fuji's speech patterns went perfectly with the poems of flight and fancy; Tennyson and Coleridge are all reserved for when Kawamura is around, who laughs at his friend and asks no questions.

Fuji has a single poem for Inui, from the macabre genius Poe, said only when they are two alone. Inui is left wondering: does the poem speak on Fuji himself, or of Inui? He does not know and it confuses him, frustrates him, but then Fuji has always been an enigma to Inui. He asks two people, Yanagi and Tezuka.

Tezuka does not converse with Inui on the topic of Fuji and his poetry.

Tezuka is simply happy he does not have to deal with Fuji reciting poetry directly to him. He is lucky in that aspect - as is Echizen. Neither of them questions their luck - not because neither cares about luck and such trivial things. They do not question it because they both feel the cool chill of time breathing down their necks.

Echizen stares at Tezuka the first day he joins the high school team. Tezuka finds he is unable to breathe, because of a simple stare, and resolves to avoid Echizen. He has done well and the flame is still burning deep inside the boy. He can ask for no more and give no more.

In the silence of his mind, in the dark hour before his alarm is set to go off, Tezuka corrects his earlier opinion.

He can ask for more. He can give more - much more.

Tezuka simply does not dare.

Echizen looks and looks and looks. He looks until Tezuka's form is burned into the back of his eyelids, until Tezuka is all he sees when he is in bed, awake or asleep. Echizen is used to challenges and direct conflicts: he plays war on the tennis courts and does not stop until he emerges the victor. But the heart is not a tennis court; he can not play the same games there, and Echizen has grown up enough to realize that. It is that fact which makes it impossible for him to advance in matters of the heart.

It would be much easier, he thinks one day in class, if the heart was a tennis court. He would know his way around, know how to win, and know how to set his mind to focus on that one goal. But even tennis is no longer played with simply winning in mind. Tezuka taught him that, and Tezuka will continue to teach him, despite what Tezuka thinks.

There is the possibility that Echizen will surpass Tezuka in tennis, and no longer learn anything from the man he respects more than he even thinks possible. But he finds himself not caring: Tezuka is Tezuka and he will always be Tezuka. He will always teach, always inspire.

He does not think about what else might linger behind the respect. Echizen is not one to question emotions; he does not want to question them now.

Days pass from the start of the year, blurring into one for Tezuka. The only thing that stands out is practice, before school and after school. And even then, the rest of the tennis club blurs, fading from focus when Echizen is present. Echizen is color and light and sound and Tezuka starts to fear his world will revolve solely around Echizen and tennis, tennis and Echizen.

He stands far from Echizen, no matter what: to touch him, to learn the scent of his body would make his fears true.

Echizen hates how far he stands, Tezuka can tell. The dislike is obvious in the narrowing of his golden eyes, the turn of his head to follow Tezuka's movements. It becomes glaringly obvious to Tezuka at least, that Echizen is going to defy him. There is nothing to make the team members suspicious, other than Inui and Fuji who suspect everything, but it is noticeable to Tezuka. Echizen starts running with him, their feet moving in a harmony; Echizen stands as close as he dares when they call team meetings; Echizen sits next to him at their first victory celebration.

Echizen asks, in that voice of his that makes Tezuka's heart catch, "When will we play a match, Buchou?"

Tezuka's voice and breathe catch and he says nothing. Echizen doesn't stop looking.

"You are a T.S Eliot poem," Fuji tells Tezuka. "You and Echizen are."

It is the first time he has spoken about his poetry, given any reasoning for his use of the English language lines that flow from him. It is, in fact, the first time he has spoken in Japanese, in normal language, since the start of practice.

Tezuka doesn't say anything, because he doesn't know what to say. T.S. Eliot is a familiar poet to him, both in Japanese and in English. Figuring out which poem Fuji is referring to will stump him if he thinks too hard, and Tezuka is too busy focusing on Echizen to want to devote himself to the puzzle that is Fuji.

As if Fuji can read his mind, the prodigy offers him more: a slip of paper with a single title on it. "Read it over, Tezuka. You might find something in there that interests you."

"Why do you quote poetry?" Tezuka finally asks, minutes after Fuji stops talking and shows no sign of leaving Tezuka's side. He isn't the first to ask, and won't be the last. But just as Tezuka is the first Fuji offers an actual title to, Tezuka is the first Fuji offers an answer.

"'The poetry does not matter'." There is a smile, different than Fuji's normal smiles; this one doesn't take up all of his face and crinkle his eyes. The smile touches the corner of Fuji's lips and eyes and is enough to make Tezuka pause in his thinking. Maybe he will take his friend's advice and read the poem he had only heard mentioned before. "'It is the intolerable wrestle with words and meanings'(1)."

Answers that are as confusing as the source of the questions leave Tezuka with a slight headache, no matter what it is for. If he is faced with confusing questions and answers all day, the pressure builds and builds, until a mental image of his head exploding haunts him. Such a feeling is common for him anymore, but it seems worse after Fuji leaves, the pressure more intense, the idea of his head exploding at once calming and upsetting.

Knowing he wouldn't have the poem at home, Tezuka stops by the library on his way home and picks up a book of T.S. Eliot's works. Sleep doesn't come to him that night, after reading: his ghost that night is not one of his teammates, his head exploding, or the impending decision he has to make, but the words in the poem.

Tennis practice the day after Fuji tells Tezuka to read is overcast. The sky is blue, but the entire club feels the clouds; they do not even whisper among themselves about the causes, but move in silence, hoping to be under some shelter before the storm breaks.

Oishi is the only one daring enough to approach Tezuka; Inui is too busy writing down observations and Fuji will approach, but not about the circles under Tezuka's eyes or the scowl that is even worse than usual. Fuji will approach because he will know why. Oishi approaches because he is worried.

"Tezuka," Oishi begins, "you look-"

Tezuka does not let Oishi finish, but barks out orders instead, assigning warm-up laps. He joins in the runners, and tries to forget how tired he is as he runs. He hears Echizen's footsteps approaching from behind, picks them out of the dozen other footsteps around him. He does not need to look to know Echizen starts running with him as usual, their feet falling in perfect rhythm. He does not need to look because he is hyper aware of Echizen; even the air changes when the freshman is around him.

Tezuka will normally glance at Echizen from the corner of his eye, halfway through their laps. Today he doesn't, because the lines haunt him.

 _And how should I presume?_ (2)

"'And in short, I was afraid'," Fuji quotes, walking past Tezuka. "'And would it have been worth it, after all, after the cups, the-'" (3)

And here Tezuka cuts Fuji off, the first time he has done such a thing since Fuji started in the poetry. "Recite something else, if you are going to speak at all." His voice is harsh and betrays more emotion than many of them, especially the first years, have ever heard.

The locker room is stunned silent, except for Fuji, who only smiles and asks, "So you read it then, Tezuka?"

His response is silence.

Inui spends the day on the computer, when he can reach one, and sending text messages via his cell phone. If anyone would know the lines Fuji recited, it would be Yanagi, who quickly responds with an answer.

The poem is easy to find once he has a title; it takes him a few minutes to puzzle out the English, but he does not wish to read it in Japanese; there is always something lost in the translation. When he figures it out, eyes widen behind glasses and he stares at the screen.

It is Fuji's poem for Tezuka that makes him realize the intent behind all of the lines Fuji speaks: he is not sharing himself, but giving life to the hidden parts of his teammates.

Echizen asks Tezuka daily: _When will we play a match?_ Even if he does not ask Tezuka directly, he can hear it, see it in Echizen's eyes. It haunts him, more than anything else does, except perhaps the desire to give into the question and play a match.

But he fears: he is human and he does not wish to lose Echizen, and he thinks playing Echizen and losing will push the boy from him. He is not sure he will lose, but the possibility looms and Tezuka does not know how to deal with uncertainty.

He wonders at night, if this is growing up; really, truly growing, gaining a level of maturity that learns to balance responsibility and desire, selflessness and selfishness. But then he thinks it can't possibly be, because he is being far too selfish. The best thing for Echizen would be to play him and let him go.

It is thoughts like that which keep Tezuka up every night, far past his usual bedtime, staring into the dark of his room and wondering when things will work out.

Fuji is at home when he studies the poetry he wishes to remember for the next day; there is always something he wishes to say, until people catch on. Maybe then he will stop, he thinks, but it is unlikely, for he has come to love the poetry and the confusion on the faces of those he holds close to his heart.

He reads it at home, for it is the best place to be alone. He can study the poetry all he wishes and pick the perfect piece for each individual. Fuji ignores his homework for his readings, but he has always ignored his homework, doing only enough to pass; it changes little about his life, except what he is doing with his free time.

It is at home where he stumbles upon another T.S. Eliot poem; it makes his eyes widen and a smile cross his lips. He will not recite this poem, but he will use it. It is copied on paper, and after he copies it, in English with a pen, he takes a pencil and draws lines through a few choice words, replacing them with ones that are more significant to the situation (4).

His handiwork makes Fuji smile, a real smile with almost no mischief behind it; his parents and sister comment on it during dinner, and Fuji even wakes up early to arrive at school before Tezuka does, to slip it into his locker and to wait for his friend to find it and read it.

For Echizen, things are easier: he does not worry about what will happen after the game he desires to play with Tezuka. He does not worry about selfishness or selflessness, or growing and maturing.

Echizen worries about who will win, if he will play well enough to shine in Tezuka's eyes, if he will have as much fun playing Tezuka now as he did when they were in middle school.

His mind stops there, for it laughs at him and Echizen does not worry about having fun. Tezuka is part of what makes tennis enjoyable, there is no doubt in his mind.

Echizen has the ability to sleep through anything, no matter what, so when Karupin wanders into his room and curls up next to Echizen's side, he is already asleep.

The words echo, in Fuji's voice, in Tezuka's head. All day. When the teachers call on Tezuka, he is distracted and gives correct answers with the air of someone who does not wish to be disturbed.

He corrects no one that day, and his math teacher breathes a sigh of relief when the last bell of the day rings and Tezuka is the first to leave.

Tezuka isn't sure why the words echo in Fuji's voice, for they were only written, not spoken. If Fuji finds out, Tezuka knows he will be delighted: he has been trying to get under Tezuka's skin from the beginning of their friendship and has had no luck. It amazes Tezuka that such a seemingly small thing manages to accomplish what none of Fuji's machinations prior had managed.

It is during tennis practice when Tezuka finally snaps; he calls a break and Fuji approaches, while Echizen watches from a bench. Fuji barely opens his mouth to greet Tezuka, when Tezuka glares at him and says something none of them expect.

"Shut _up_."

Fuji's eyes snap open and his mouth drops; Tezuka leaves before anyone says anything, disappearing into the locker room, and the silence stretches over the tennis courts, Tezuka's words infusing everyone: no one speaks.

Fuji recovers quickly; his smile is wide and his eyes are merry behind their lids. He suspects and that is enough for him.

He even dares to break the order Tezuka issued, when they leave and he passes Tezuka once again.

"And where you are is where you are not," (5) Fuji whispers softly. Tezuka looks at him oddly, but there is a hint of relief written in the glare in his eyes.

Echizen returns home from tennis practice in a miserable mood; he eats nothing for dinner, does not respond to his father's demands for a game, and Karupin is only a distraction. When his mother asks what is wrong, he says nothing. He does not wish to talk about it, the questions he asks his buchou daily and the refusals.

He is ready for bed when there is a knock at the front door; Echizen ignores it, for no one he knows would visit so late. He is instead thinking of the look in Tezuka's eyes, each day when he asks his question, either with his voice or with his own eyes. The look in Tezuka's eyes is torn and Echizen thinks, that if he has one more day, Tezuka will give in and stop with the nonsense of worrying. It is those thoughts that distract him from even hearing his mother's voice, calling to him.

The knock on his door startles him, and his mothers look inside. "Ryoma, didn't you hear me? You have a visitor."

He responds, but he does not remember what he says. His hands are shaking and it feels hard to breathe, because he knows and he has been waiting for this moment for what feels like forever, and there is no surprise when he stands on the stairs and looks down into Tezuka's eyes.

"Will you play a match with me, Ryoma?"

 _.end._

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:
> 
> 1; paraphrased from the line _"Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle_  
>  _With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter."_ found in "East Coker", No. 2 of 'Four Quartets', by T.s. Eliot. Read the entire thing  here.
> 
> 2; direct quote from 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock', by T.S. Eliot. Read the entire thing here.
> 
> 3; direct quote from 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock', by T.S. Eliot
> 
> 4; Fuji finds the last two stanzas of "Burnt Norton", No. 1 of 'Four Quartets', by T.s. Eliot.
> 
>  _Words move,_   
> _music_   
> _tennis moves_   
> _Only in time; but that which is only living_   
> _Can only die. Words, after speech, reach_   
> _Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,_   
> _Can words or_   
> _music_   
> _tennis reach_   
> _The stillness, as a Chinese jar still_   
> _Moves perpetually in its stillness._   
> _Not the stillness of the_   
> _violin_   
> _racket, while the note lasts,_   
> _Not that only, but the co-existence,_   
> _Or say that the end precedes the beginning,_   
> _And the end and the beginning were always there_   
> _Before the beginning and after the end._   
> _And all is always now. Words strain,_   
> _Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,_   
> _Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,_   
> _Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,_   
> _Will not stay still. Shrieking voices_   
> _Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,_   
> _Always assail them. The Word in the desert_   
> _Is most attacked by voices of temptation,_   
> _The crying shadow in the funeral dance,_   
> _The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera._
> 
>  _The detail of the pattern is movement,_  
>  _As in the figure of the ten stairs._ _Desire itself is movement_  
>  _Not in itself desirable;_  
>  _Love is itself unmoving,_  
>  _Only the cause and end of movement,_  
>  _Timeless, and undesiring_  
>  _Except in the aspect of time_  
>  _Caught in the form of limitation_  
>  _Between un-being and being._  
>  _Sudden in a shaft of sunlight_  
>  _Even while the dust moves_  
>  _There rises the hidden laughter_  
>  _Of children in the foliage_  
>  _Quick now, here, now, always—_  
>  _Ridiculous the waste sad time_  
>  Stretching before and after.
> 
> 5; also taken from T.S Eliot's 'Four Quartets'.


End file.
